e Lynhaven line, not as they were set
forth by Mr. Pyeburt--who took a much more optimistic view of the
possibilities of the railway than did its detractors--but as they
really were.

"It's a fine line, beautifully laid and ballasted," said Mr. Pyeburt,
shaking his head with melancholy admiration. "All that it wants behind
it is a mind. At present it's neglected; the freights and passenger
fares are too high, the rolling-stock wants replacing, but the
locomotive stock is in most excellent condition."

"Does he want to sell it?" asked the interested Bones, and Mr. Pyeburt
pursed his lips.

"It is extremely doubtful," he said carefully, "but I think he might be
approached. If he does want to sell it, and you can take it off his
hands----"

He raised his own eyebrows with a significant gesture, which expressed
in some subtle way that Bones's future was assured.

Bones said he would think the matter over, and he did--aloud, in the
presence of Hamilton.

"It's a queer proposition," said Hamilton. "Of course, derelict
railways can be made to pay."

"I should be general manager," said Bones more thoughtfully still. "My
name would be printed on all the posters, of course. And isn't there a
free pass over all the railways for railway managers?"

"I believe there is something of the sort," said Hamilton, "but, on the
whole, I think it would be cheaper to pay your fare than to buy a
railway to get that privilege."

"There is one locomotive," mused Bones. "It is called 'Mary Louisa.'
Pyeburt told me about it just as I was going away. Of course, one
would get a bit of a name and all that sort of thing."

He scratched his chin and walked thoughtfully into the office of Miss
Marguerite Whitland.

She swung round in her chair and reached for her notebook, but Bones
was not in a dictatorial mood.

"Young miss," he asked, "how do you like Sir Augustus?"

"Sir who?" she demanded, puzzled.

"Sir Augustus," repeated Bones.

"I think it's very funny," she said.

It was not the answer he expected, and instinctively she knew she had
made a mistake.

"Oh, you're thinking about yourself," she said quickly. "Are you going
to be a knight, Mr. Tibbetts? Oh, how splendid!"

"Yes," admitted Bones, with fine indifference, "not bad, dear old miss.
I'm pretty young, of course, but Napoleon was a general at twenty-two."

"Are you going back into the Army?" she asked a little hazily, and had
visions of Bones at the War